


Lost in Your Sleeve

by weezly14



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4391513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weezly14/pseuds/weezly14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For a kid with so damn much family these days, he’s still somehow been dealt a shitty hand.” No magic AU where Henry’s just a sad, angry with with a fucked up family tree. </p><p>Captain Cobra. (Eventual) Captain Swan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this last summer, but when AU week rolled around ‘A One Time Thing’ was in better shape, so that’s what I posted and spent time working on. I’ll be roadtripping across the country this year during AU week, so here’s the prologue. Recommended listening: Eugene by Sufjan Stevens.

  _i just want to be near you._

_-_

**prologue.**

**-**

**henry.**

            “Going somewhere?”

            _Fuck._

            He should’ve figured this wasn’t going to work.

            He turns around, fixes the man with the flashlight with what he hopes is a neutral smile as he fixes the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. Shrugs.

            “Just wanted some fresh air.”

            “At this hour?”

            “I don’t have a watch, see. What hour is it?”

            “Past curfew,” the man says. There’s an amused lilt to his voice but Henry knows better than assume he can talk his way out of this. He _is_ lingering by the wall at the edge of the grounds with his backpack, and it _is_ late.

            They stare at each other for another moment before Henry sighs. _Fuck_.

            “So what happens now? Detention? A write up? Are you gonna drag me to the headmaster’s office for a talking to? Lines?” he asks. He knows that giving this guy—who’s probably a teacher—attitude isn’t exactly in his best interest but, well. He almost doesn’t give a fuck.

            Almost.

            “What’s your name, lad?” the man asks instead of answering.

            “Henry.”

            “And your surname?”

            “It’s complicated.”

            (Because he was born Henry Swan, but when Emma gave him up a few days later he was adopted and became Henry Mills. Then Regina got married and became a Locksley and when Robin attempted to adopt him he got on a bus to New York to live with Emma because Regina wasn’t his mom and Robin sure as fuck wasn’t his dad and he was done playing house with them.

            And Neal was a Cassidy—unlike his father, who was a Gold—but Henry never had his name because Neal never knew Henry existed because Neal left Emma to rot in jail for his own crime and didn’t see her again until he literally ran into her in New York City, like something out of a fucking soap opera.

            So if you read his file or ask his name it’s Henry Mills, which will tell you fuck all about him, actually.)

            (Most days he avoids offering a last name at all.)

            “Mills, Swan, Cassidy—take your pick,” he says after a moment.

            The man doesn’t say anything right away, but there’s a flicker of something there. At the names or the presence of so many, he isn’t sure. Still. Interesting. He tucks that away for later—maybe this guy isn’t so bad, maybe he’ll be—well, not an ally. But maybe he’s not an eneny, either. He’s the one who sighs this time, though.

            “I’m not going to tell Gold about this. Let you off with a warning since you’re new,” the man starts.

            Henry _just_ resists the urge to smile. Being the new kid—being the mayor’s kid—being the kid who’s dad died—he’s gotten a lot of free passes the past few years, and maybe that’s what got him stuck at this stupid school, but he’ll take it if it means not being lectured by Granddad Gold or getting some sort of preachy phone call from Regina. (Or a sad smile from Emma. He’s used to letting Regina down. He hates it when it’s Emma, though, because she thinks it’s all her fault, and even if he sorta agrees—it’s not _completely._ )

            “ _However_ ,” the man continues, breaking Henry out of his thoughts. “I’ll be escorting you back to the dorms. It’s late, and you’ve a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

            Henry rolls his eyes. 

            “Yeah, whatever.”

            He adjusts his backpack again before walking toward the man, who’s watching him with a searching expression Henry isn’t sure what to do with—and still pointing that damned flashlight at him.

            “Who’re you, anyway?”

            “Killian Jones,” the man tells him, offering his hand. Henry takes it, because why not, right? “I’ll be your history teacher. I also lead the sailing club.”

            Henry snorts.

            “There’s a sailing club here?”

            “Aye. You wouldn’t happen to be interested in that, would you?”

            “I’ll pass.”

            “Suit yourself.”

            They walk back to the dorms in silence, Killian—Mr. Jones—with his flashlight lighting the trail, Henry trying to plan for tomorrow night, since apparently this Jones guy patrols the grounds at this hour.

            Tomorrow he’ll do better. Tomorrow he’ll find something so he can actually get past the stupid fucking wall, and he’ll make sure not to run into any teachers on the way.

            Fuck Barrie and fuck Gold and them all for sending him here in the first place.

            Just—just fuck—

            “You’re not the first person who’s tried to run away his first night, you know,” Jones says conversationally. Henry glares at him, though he’s sure it’s lost in the darkness.

            “You the keeper of lost boys or something, then?”

            Jones doesn’t answer.

            “It won’t happen again.”

            “I think we both know that’s not true,” Jones says, and Henry hates him for being right—for knowing he’s going to try again. Fuck this guy, too. “It’s normal to be homesick, Henry.”

            “Who said I was going home?” he snaps.

            “Where were you running away to, then?”

            Henry shrugs.

            (He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to—to show his hand, so to speak.)

            (Not like this guy would get it anyway. Or actually care.)

            Killian walks him right up to his door, and it’s so infuriating and makes him feel like such a little kid that he wants to scream—wants to shout at this Killian Jones, history and sailing teacher, wants to throw his stupid flashlight on the floor and tell him he doesn’t know anything about him or his home or his family or running away, and to stop pretending he cares, and to just leave him the fuck alone, he can walk up stairs by himself, okay? He’s not a _baby_ —

            But he doesn’t, he doesn’t shout or throw the flashlight, he just opens his door and tells Mr. Jones goodnight without a glance.

            “I’m here if you ever find yourself in want of someone to talk to,” he tells him before the door shuts.

            This time Henry doesn’t stop the words on the tip of his tongue.

            “Fuck off.”

\---

            (If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll get kicked out.)

\---

            The shrink Regina took him to told him once he had anger issues, but he doesn’t really think it’s that—or, he doesn’t think he shouldn’t be angry. Sure, he’s a little pissed off most of the time, but he thinks it’s pretty justified, you know?

            The difference between Emma and Regina—the reason he’s run away to Emma’s so many times—is Emma gets it, or something, even if she fucks up just as much as Regina. Regina tells him stuff like “don’t be ridiculous” or “that’s not true”—Regina makes him feel like a stupid kid who doesn’t have a reason to be angry. Emma, though. Emma says “I know you’re upset” and “you have every reason to be angry”—shit like that.

            Still.

            He hates them both for sending them here, but he hates even more than he doesn’t even have any place to run away to anymore.

\---

            Before, he might’ve—

            But that’s not an option.

\---

            (And, the voice at the back of his head—or maybe it’s the voice of that shrink Regina took him to—wants to know if he’d even have ended up here—would’ve even wanted to run away again—if it hadn’t happened in the first place.)

\---

            (He thinks he still might’ve, though.)

\---

            Because, see, when he asked her about his dad she told him he died. That he’d been a firefighter and a hero, that he’d loved her very much, that he would’ve loved _him_ , too.

            Later he finds out that his father is neither dead nor a firefighter.

            As for who he loved—

            Well.

            It doesn’t matter.

\---

            (Except it does.)

\---

            What matters is she lied.

            (What matters is he’s alive.)

\---

            (Was alive.)

\---

            What matters is he’s a kid who got on a bus to find his birth mom and three years later found himself on another bus, only this time he wasn’t going to find anyone; this time he was being shipped away from everyone, because he’s a delinquent and troubled and a whole list of words Regina likes to throw at Emma as though it’s all her fault.

            This time he’s got a knapsack full of clothes instead of a book full of stories.

            This time he’s not some bright eyed kid full of hope.

            This time it’s not a choice.

\---

            What matters is he’s angry and maybe it’s justified and maybe it isn’t, but regardless he’s found himself sent off to the fucking forest to straighten up and not be a delinquent—or, as Regina puts it, for “a better education.” He’ll get to know Neal’s dad, too, though Emma didn’t seem too crazy about that aspect of it, and given that Neal never mentioned the man, Henry isn’t so sure he’d be crazy about it, either.

            But Henry doesn’t get a say in these things anymore, he doesn’t get to pick which buses he boards or which address he calls home. He gets shuffled around, passed from one parent figure to another until he acts out too much for them to handle and they send him somewhere else.

            And Neal doesn’t get a say in anything either, since he’s dead, and maybe there’s some anger at that, too.

\---            

            (Sometimes he feels like he’s spent his whole life being shipped off when he got too inconvenient.)

\---

            Its proper name is the Barrie School for Boys and it’s some boarding school in western Massachusetts, off in the woods somewhere with a small town nearby. Most call it Neverland.

            When he got off the bus the headmaster—his grandfather, technically—was waiting to meet him, and that was new. Nice change, or something. Usually when he gets off the bus there’s no one because usually he’s the one going after people. It’s strange to be waited for. Sought.

            It’s stranger because Gold probably doesn’t actually give a fuck, grandfather or not.

\---  

            (For a kid with so damn much family these days, he’s somehow still been dealt a shitty hand.) 

\---

            He didn’t call Regina before he left and he didn’t say goodbye to Emma before he got on the bus and the last time he saw Neal he didn’t even hug him goodbye—just a wave and a ‘see you later.’

            As he tries to fall asleep in this new bed he hates at this new school he hates even more, he hates most of all the part of him that misses them.


	2. Chapter 2

**chapter 1.**

- 

**henry.**

            Regina used to walk him to school everyday. She’d hold his hand as they went, her grip tightening when people would pass by, fake smiles on their faces as they greeted her, an equally forced smile on her own. She was a very powerful woman, his adoptive mother. Important. The kind of important that never forgets itself—that demands that no one else forget it, either. The kind that doesn’t make many friends. She’d hold onto his hand as they walked and as he got older he wondered if she did it for his sake or her own. Who really needed that anchor?

            Maybe it was both of them.

            Emma walked him to school, too, but she kept her distance a bit, only reaching for him to cross the street.

            “I guess you’re probably too old for this, huh?” she’d said once as they walked, her hand soft and unsure around his.

            “I don’t mind,” he’d said, squeezing her hand and smiling.

            She’d smiled back, ruffled his hair before he ran off and into the building, and when he glanced back as he reached the door she was still there, still smiling, still watching him.

            Truthfully, he didn’t need either of them to walk him to school.  He just—

            He just liked it when they did.

\---

            His first Monday at Barrie he walks alone to the dining hall. Sits alone for breakfast, and makes his way by himself to his first class.

\---

            “We meet again.”

            “ _Fuck_.”

            “Language.”

            Henry turns and glares at Mr. Jones, who’s got that damned flashlight shining at him and a smirk on top of it all. Henry hates him.

            (Except his class. It was probably the most interesting one Henry went to all day. Which maybe isn’t saying much, but, well. Mr. Jones doesn’t completely suck, even if he keeps catching Henry trying to sneak out.)

            “You’re not very good at this, lad.”

            He’s _amused_. Which Henry supposes is better than angry, but still. He’s still an asshole. Why can’t he just let him leave?

            “Whatever.”

            “Come on, then. Back to your room.”

            “Are you walking me again?”

            “Of course. Can’t risk you trying to escape again.”

            “Escape implies that you know this place is shitty.”

            “You certainly seem to think it is.”

            “I never wanted to come here in the first place.”

            “Is that so?”

            He started breaking into cars after Neal died. Attempting joy rides or whatever. Mostly he could get away with it—Mayor’s kid, remember?—but in New York, with Emma, he wasn’t so lucky. They managed to keep it off his record (he imagines Regina paid someone off, or paid some sort of fine), but that was the last straw.

            Boarding school was better than juvie, they figured, and it seemed like juvie was where he was headed.

            (It’s funny that he turned out to be such a shitty criminal, always getting caught breaking in or sneaking out, given that Emma and Neal met stealing a car. Must’ve been Regina’s influence. Nature and nurture and that crap.)            

            “Doesn’t matter.”

            “Where did you want to go?”

            Henry shrugs.

            He’s not sure anymore.

            Mr. Jones doesn’t push further, and they walk the rest of the way in silence.

            “Have a good night, lad,” he says once they reach Henry’s door.

            “Whatever.”

            “My offer still stands, you know. If you’d like to talk—”

            “Why do you care?” Henry asks suddenly. Mr. Jones blinks.

            “What?”

            “Why the fuck do you care?” Henry repeats, a little slower. He half expects Jones to give him crap for his language again, but he doesn’t. He just frowns, seems to struggle with himself for a moment.

            “I knew your father.”

            “Bullshit.”

            He doesn’t know why he said it—it just exploded out of him. No way did this guy know Neal. _No way._

            “Not bullshit,” he says. “We knew each other as boys. It’s been quite some time, but—” He shrugs. “He was a large part of my life, at one point, and I’d hate to see his son so lost.”

            “I’m not lost,” Henry snaps.

            Killian doesn’t say anything. Henry looks down at his feet, fiddling with his key.

            “You weren’t at the funeral.”

            “I didn’t know he’d died.”

            Henry nods, mostly to himself.

            “There wasn’t really anyone there. Just me and my—Emma. And Gold.”

            He doesn’t tell Mr. Jones how much it ripped at him, standing in the cemetery, some minister who never knew Neal and only the few of them besides, the only people in the world who gave a fuck that he was gone. Empty words. Meaningless. Gold cried. Emma, too.

            Not Henry, though.

            (He remembers the wind made his eyes sting, he remembers the ache in his chest, how his tie that Emma tied for him with shaking fingers felt like it’d suffocate him, how he kept taking deep breaths because there wasn’t enough air, and it was cold and the goddamn wind was burning and his lungs and Emma’s hand holding his, squeezing—

            He’s not sure if that was for her or for him, either.)

            (He wishes he knew the difference between needing his mom and his mom needing him.)

            “I’m sorry, Henry,” Jones says quietly.

            That’s what everyone said, after.

            Empty, meaningless bullshit.

            He looks up at Mr. Jones to tell him as much, but as soon as he meets his eyes, he can tell that he means it. That it’s not like when Robin said it, when Dr. Hopper said it, when anyone else said it.

            He tries to say something but his throat closes up suddenly, eyes burning like they did at the funeral, and all he can do is nod.

            “Sleep well, lad. I’ll see you tomorrow in class,” Jones says quietly. He smiles softly before turning, taking his flashlight with him, leaving Henry alone in the dark of his doorway.

            He wipes at his eyes as he locks it door behind him, and he falls asleep thinking about Neal and Emma—wondering how Mr. Jones fit into it.

            Maybe—just maybe—he’ll ask him sometime.

 

**killian.**

 

He reads Henry’s file. He feels a bit guilty for it, but he can’t very well ask Gold about the boy (and he gathers that Gold would hardly have anything worthwhile to tell him, anyway), and he _cares_. He’s typically able to keep his students at a distance—it’s the only way, really, to handle being a teacher at a school such as this. He gets to know his students, of course, comes to care for them and hope for them, feels sadness when they leave—but usually it takes time for him to feel attached to his students. With Henry, though, it’s almost instant.

            Honestly, hearing he’s Bae’s boy is hardly even a shock. He looks just like him. Hearing him say it really only cements it—like the pieces clicked into place with the words, as opposed to it being some sort of revelation.

            This is Bae’s son. Bae—Neal—who recently died.

            There’s so much of Bae in this boy, Killian can hardly stand it. The more Henry speaks, the more he sees it. Hears it.

            He reads Henry’s file because he wants to help him, he wants to figure out the boy, wants to figure out what happened in the years after he last saw Bae—what led to Bae’s son ending up at Neverland, angry and sad and lost.

            (So much like his father had been that summer.)

            He only hopes that this time, he doesn’t fuck it all up.

\---

            It’s a surprise when Henry hangs back at the end of class on Thursday. After their second run in, Killian hadn’t found Henry attempting to run away—and as far as he’d heard, no one else had, either. He smiles at the boy when he sees him in class everyday, and while the boy never returns it, he can tell he notices.

            Thursday is the day his class is Henry’s last for the day, and he’s wiping the chalkboard as the boys file out when he hears Henry approach.

            “Mr. Jones?”

            “Yes, lad?”

            He sets down the eraser and turns toward Henry, his backpack hanging from one shoulder and tie undone. (And poorly knotted.)

            (He wonders, suddenly, who ever taught the boy how to tie a tie. If anyone ever did.)

            “I was—I was wondering—”

            He stops. Adjusts his backpack.

            “You said something about sailing club?”

            Killian bites back the frown. He seriously doubts Henry hung back to ask about _sailing club_ , but he’ll leave the boy alone. Let him approach him as he wants—as he feels comfortable. If he wants to know about Bae—

            Well.

            All in good time.

            “Aye. Interested, then?”

            Henry shrugs.

            “Regina always wanted me to play a sport or whatever. Get involved.”

            “And you?”

            He shrugs again.

            “I mean, it’s not really a sport, right? And, I dunno. I like being by the water.”

            Killian nods.

            “Well, we’ve a meeting tomorrow afternoon. 4 o’clock. We meet in the main foyer and walk to the boathouse together.”

            “Are there a lot of people?”

            “A few. Not very many.”

            “Okay,” Henry says with a nod. He doesn’t say anything else, nor does he move.

            “So, will we be seeing you tomorrow?”

            Henry nods.

            “Excellent.” Killian smiles at him. Henry smiles back, though it’s a halfway thing.

            He still doesn’t quite leave.

            “Was there anything else I could do for you, lad?” he asks carefully.

            “No, I just—wanted to ask. About that.”

            “Right.”

            “And now I have, so—” He starts to leave. “Thanks, Mr. Jones.”

            “Any time, Henry.”

            He gets one final smile before the boy leaves his classroom, and he settles into his chair with a sigh.

\---

            By the time the weekly sailing club meeting has rolled around, Killian has received two emails expressing sorrow at being unable to attend (detention and illness, respectively), and had been accosted between periods by another of his students fretting about an upcoming exam—apologizing at having to miss the weekly sailing lesson, but much more concerned with his classes than the club. (As it should be, as far as Killian is concerned.)

            Meaning that when Killian arrives at the foyer to greet his club, he is met only by three of his students: Michael and Harry, a pair of best friends who’d been at Barrie since they were 10—and in the sailing club for just as long—and Henry.

            Henry is shuffling his feet, trying not to appear awkward, by the looks of it, trying to appear indifferent to Michael and Harry, but sneaking glances every so often anyway. The two of them, in turn, are having a rather animated discussion about something—perhaps a video game?—that Killian doesn’t follow.

            (He finds he half wants to hang back and see if Henry won’t approach them properly. They’re all the same year, and Henry would do well with friends. Killian gets the feeling he hasn’t had many in his life.)

            But, as he is a teacher and not a social coordinator, and as he’s often stressing the importance of punctuality to his students, he makes his way over to the group and smiles as he greets them.

            “Afternoon, lads.”

            “Hello, Mr. Jones,” Harry and Michael say at nearly the same time. Henry mumbles his own “hello” after them.

            “Harry, Michael, this is Henry. He’ll be joining us from now on.”

            “Maybe,” Henry says.

            “ _Maybe_ he’ll be joining us from now on,” Killian corrects.

            The boys greet each other, and then look back to Killian for guidance.

            “Where’s everyone else?” Michael asks.

            “Detention, sick, and studying,” Killian lists off. “Shall we make our way to the water, then?”

            Harry and Michael start off, and Henry follows, a little slower. Killian lets himself fall into step with him.

            “What do you guys even do in sailing club?” Henry asks.

            “Well, we learn different knots. The parts of a ship. Basics, you know. And when the weather’s good we take the boat out for a bit.”

            “Really?”

            “Aye. It’s good practice. Some things can be learned from books, but other knowledge comes only from the actual doing of an activity. Sailing, I find, is one of the latter ones. Harry and Michael have sailed quite a bit, and I’m sure would be more than happy to help you with anything you might have questions about.”

            Henry nods.

            “I’m glad you decided to come today,” Killian tells him. Henry shrugs, but he can see his lips turn up in the beginnings of a smile, and maybe it isn’t much—

            But it’s a start.

\---

            They decide to end early that day (Harry and Michael restless, Henry a bit nervous) and as they walk back to the school he again walks with Henry, the other two quite a bit ahead.

            “Think you’ll stick with us?”

            “I guess.”

            And he probably shouldn’t, but he rationalizes that he’d offer it to any student in Henry’s position, which is why he says:

            “If you want, you and I could come out to the boat house again, before the next meeting. Help you catch up a bit so you don’t feel so far behind the other boys.”

            “You’d do that?”

            And while it’s true that he’d do it for any student who expressed interest, he knows deep down that his motivation comes far more from the fact that he cares about Henry, that he’s invested because of Bae.

            “Aye.”

            Henry seems to catch himself, and he puts on that mask of indifference again.

            “I guess that would be cool,” he says.

            “Excellent.”

            They’re almost to the gates when Henry speaks again.

            “Mr. Jones?”

            “Yes, lad?”

            He bites his lip.

            “Were you and my—Neal—close?”

            Yes. No. Perhaps at one point. Perhaps they could have been.

            “I taught him how to sail,” he says instead of answering.

            “Really?”

            Killian spares the boy a glance, and it’s B—Neal all over again. He simply nods.

            “But—aren’t you the same age? How old are you?”

            “I was a few years older than him, but I grew up near the water. My father and brother and I—I was as familiar with ships as other boys are with cars. Your father was a city boy who’d hardly ever seen the ocean when we first met. Age aside, our experiences couldn’t have been more different. That’s when I taught him to sail.”

            Henry is silent for a moment, staring at his feet as they walk.

            “I didn’t know he knew how to sail,” he admits quietly. Killian doesn’t say anything. “There’s probably a lot of stuff like that, that I don’t know. About him.”

            He wishes he knew what to say—how to comfort the boy. But what do you say to someone who’s lost a parent they hardly ever even knew? What sort of condolences can you give to a stranger, regarding someone who was practically a stranger to them?

            How can you quantify that sort of loss?

            “Did you talk to your mother about him? She might be able to tell you—”

            “Emma hated him,” he says quickly. “She hated him because he left her, and she told me he was dead but he wasn’t, and then when he came _back_ —” He shakes his head. “I can’t ask her about him. And Gold didn’t even know where he _was_ until he died so he’s useless, too.”

            “Henry—”

            “I don’t wanna talk to Emma.”

            (Killian gets the feeling that that’s not completely true, but he doesn’t push the boy, agitated as he already is.)

            “Okay.”

            Henry takes a deep breath. Glances at Killian almost apologetically.

            “See you on Monday, Mr. Jones,” he says, looking down at his shoes and taking a step back.

            “Have a good weekend, Henry.”

            The boy nods once before he walks away.

            Not for the first time, he wonders what happened to Bae after he ran away.


	3. Chapter 3

**chapter 2.**

 

**henry.**

           

            When Henry ran away to live with Emma Regina called every night. She’d call him, and she’d call Emma. He’s surprised she didn’t drive to the city to pick him up, honestly, but he’s glad she didn’t because he thinks he made his point pretty clear, you know?

            But she’d call him all the time, and even if he ignored it, mostly, it was sort of nice, too, in a weird way. Because even if he didn’t want to talk to her—she cared. It was proof that she gave a fuck. And given that he’d grown up feeling like she _didn’t_ —or like she didn’t love _him_ , just the idea of him, a perfect son who behaved and got good grades and wore nice button ups or whatever—it was just nice, to see her name show up on his phone or Emma’s, to see her trying.

            She didn’t try like that until Emma came into the picture, and Emma never really tried, either, because she hadn’t wanted him in the first place, and the only reason she stuck around or let him stay was ‘cause she felt guilty.

            He knew she loved him and everything. That she’d wanted to give him his best chance and whatever. But still. It stung knowing how much she hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, how quick she was to herd him into her car and drive him right back to Regina’s, how reluctant she was to even get hot chocolate with him. Maybe she was just trying to protect herself, but as a kid who’d been shoved aside for things like Regina’s career and business meetings and whatever always, being shoved aside by Emma for less still fucking hurt.

            Neal tried. Neal wanted him. Neal fought with Emma over him—Emma, who hadn’t wanted anything to do with him when he first showed up on her doorstep, wanted to keep Neal away. _I’m trying to protect you_ , she’d told him. He’d wanted to scream. Protect him from what? From the first person who wanted him for no reason other than he was his kid? Neal didn’t know _anything_ about him, barely even knew his name, but he _still_ —

            Regina didn’t want him until Emma showed up, and Emma didn’t want him until she saw how miserable he was with Regina, but Neal wanted him always.

            Figures he’d be the parent to die.

\---

            Regina started calling less after Neal died. After he started acting out. After he started ignoring her calls altogether. She just gave up. He’d hear Emma on the phone with her some nights, giving her updates. The two of them talking about what they were gonna do with him.

            How to solve the problem that is Henry Swan-Mills-Cassidy.

            When they told him they were sending him to Barrie—the two of them sitting him down in Emma’s living room, Regina all dressed up and perfect looking despite the fact that she’d just driven up for the afternoon—he stopped talking to Emma. A few words when he had to, but mostly he froze her out. She kept trying. Even hugged him goodbye before putting him on the bus.

            She called him on the first day of classes but he didn’t answer.

            She didn’t try again.

\---

            When he gets back to his room after sailing club, he picks up his phone and stares at his contacts, stares at her name and the picture he took of her when she took him to Coney Island. She’s making a funny face. In her phone the picture attached to his name is the funny face he made at her right after, the same day, same trip.

            He stares at her name, the number he knows by heart, but he just can’t bring himself to call.

\---

            (He still hasn’t erased Neal.)

\---

            The shrink Regina took him to told him once that he should write letters. Not to send, just to get his thoughts out or whatever. Said it was like writing in a journal—was a healthy outlet or something, that it might make him feel better.

            He tried, once, but it felt dumb, so he stopped.

            The last time he saw Regina—that day they sat him down and told him he was going to Barrie—she gave him a box of fancy stationary, with his initials, _HM,_ on the front. So he could write to her, if he wanted.

            He’d _wanted_ to chuck the box out the window, but he figured that wouldn’t help his case, so he took it and threw it on his desk after they let him leave the room, and he packed it only because it _was_ pretty nice.

            It’s sitting in his desk drawer now, because he didn’t feel like looking at it every day, and between that and his phone contacts staring at him he’s never wanted both his moms _more_ than he does right now, and more than either of them he wants Neal to not be dead anymore, he wants for them all to have wanted him in the first place, wants to not be here, and, most of all, wants to not still care so fucking much about _all_ of them.

            He goes to bed early, angry, Mr. Jones’ voice ringing in his ears, _I’m here if you ever want to talk_ , and he wishes he could believe that.

            He’s just not sure he does.

\---

            School is mostly boring. Mr. Jones asks him to stay back on Monday, and asks if he still wants that make up sailing lesson. He agrees because it’s something to do, and because he secretly sort of likes Mr. Jones, even if he is a teacher. So on Wednesday he ends up walking down to the boat house with Mr. Jones, and they spend the afternoon going over knots and rigging and whatever, and it’s _fun_.

            And when Friday rolls around he meets the other boys in sailing club, and because the weather’s good Mr. Jones lets them takes the boat out for a bit, shouting orders at them all and guiding them as they sail about, and _that’s_ fun, too.

            He even ends up sitting with a few of the other boys at dinner that night, and it’s—it’s surprising and unexpected, and they’re not his _friends_ , exactly, but they’re not strangers, really, either, and it doesn’t completely suck to be at this stupid school, for the first time since he got here.

            Which is why when he meets Mr. Jones’ eye across the dining hall, he grins freely at him.

            Because he may be the stupid teacher who stopped him running away, but he’s also been really nice to him, so it sort of balances out.

\---            

            Regina calls but he doesn’t answer.

            Emma calls and he doesn’t answer that, either.

\---

            He writes them both letters on notebook paper and crumbles them before chucking them into the trashcan.

            Regina’s fancy stationary sits untouched in his desk drawer.

\---

            “Mr. Jones?”

            He doesn’t know why he’s talking to him. He just knows he’s done with classes for the day and he’s stupidly homesick but also doesn’t really want to see Regina _or_ Emma and yet, at the same time, wishes he could run home to find Regina pulling a pie out of the oven and letting him have a piece before dinner, or meet Emma at her office and play games on her computer while she finished things up, ruffling his hair and smirking when he’d stick his tongue out at her.

            (Once Neal picked him up from school—the _only_ time he picked him up from school—and they walked around Central Park and Neal took him to get ‘the best pizza in the city,’ which Henry thinks is debatable, because while it was really good pizza, the pizza Emma would order was pretty good, too, but he’d smiled anyway and let Neal have it.)

            Whatever his reasons, Henry finds himself wandering up to Mr. Jones’ desk. He’s clearing off the board, and he faces Henry with a concerned look, and Henry sort of hates that. Hates the way grown ups look at him, like he might break at any moment. But Mr. Jones is the only person at this stupid school he can even _sort of_ talk to. So. He doesn’t tell him to fuck off, even if he’s thinking it, a little.

            “What can I help you with, lad?”

            Henry shrugs. He isn’t really sure, honestly. Doesn’t need _help_ , exactly, just—

            “Did you have a question about the lesson, or—”

            “What was my dad like?” he bursts. Mr. Jones looks surprised. He keeps going. “When you knew him? Because,” and here he adjusts his backpack on his shoulder and averts his gaze, unable to handle the pity in Mr. Jones’ eyes. It makes his blood boil, a little, but he wants to know more than he wants to be angry, so he pushes on. “Because I know he liked pizza, and he hates mushrooms—once I got a slice and it had mushrooms and he picked them off—and he knew how to hotwire a car and pick locks with a bobby pin, but—”

            “Henry.”

            “I don’t wanna ask Emma. I can’t. I think—I think she misses him, and I dunno that _she_ knows how to—deal with it.”

            He doesn’t let himself look at Mr. Jones, then. He does love Emma, even if he’s mad at her, but it feels like—he doesn’t want Mr. Jones to think she’s a terrible person, because she’s not, you know? He doesn’t want Mr. Jones getting the wrong idea, and it feels a little like he’s betraying her, but—

            She’d cried at the funeral, clutching his hand. And after. That night—he heard her crying but she didn’t want him to know but he did. He heard.

            (She cried when they first met Neal, too. That night, after they ran into him. He was pissed at her—she’d _lied_ to him—but her heard her crying and he thinks he sort of forgave her a little bit, after that. It’s hard to be angry with someone who’s so sad. Maybe she _did_ think she was protecting him by lying—even if he knows that’s bullshit.)

            He just doesn’t want to make her cry again, is the thing, doesn’t want to be the one to bring up Neal. He thinks—he thinks Emma and Regina were a little _relieved_. When he died. Even though that sounds terrible—it made things easier, definitely. Only having to figure out where he went between two, not three. Neal’s in the past now, out of the picture, not worth talking about, not worth—not worth crying over anymore.

            (Henry thinks _that’s_ what makes him want to cry most.)

            He just can’t talk to Emma about him.

            He’s snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of Mr. Jones’ desk drawer opening. Henry’s about to ask when he sees him pull out a bag of candy.

            “He did hate mushrooms,” Jones tells him with a soft smile, offering the bag to Henry as he comes out from around the desk. He takes a seat in one of the desks, and Henry shrugs off his backpack and takes a seat next to him, handing the bag back after pulling out a piece of chocolate. Mr. Jones considers the bag before pulling a Starburst out. “Didn’t know how to swim, either.”

            “Really?”

            “Aye. Said his mother had wanted to teach him, but his father had been so terrified he’d drown that they never put him in lessons. Figured, in the city, he’d hardly have to worry about falling into the ocean. When we met—it was this small town on the coast, where I grew up. He confessed he didn’t know how to swim, and so we paused sailing lessons and would go swimming instead.”

            Henry can’t even imagine what Neal must’ve been like—looked like, even—as a kid.

            “So he did learn?” he asks.

            “He did. He even liked it, a bit. Though he’d burn. Said his mother was very cross with him for not putting on sunscreen.”

            Mr. Jones smiles to himself, and Henry can’t help but wonder—

            “What was—what was she like? His mom? Did you know her, too?”

            Mr. Jones picks another candy out of bag instead of answering. Carefully unwraps his Starburst as Henry picks another candy, too. He pops it into his mouth, and Henry’s about to ask again—also _why_ he doesn’t want to answer, what’s the issue, but then—

            “Aye. I did know her. She was—” He seems to struggle. Henry can’t imagine _why_. “She was kind. I’ll confess, I didn’t know her well.”

            “How come he was—wherever you lived?”

            “His mother, actually. His parents divorced. She moved to the town I grew up in. Bae went to stay with her for the summer—”

            “Bae?” What a stupid name. Nickname?

            Killian smiles to himself again before looking at Henry.

            “Baelfire. That was his given name. His mother—and father, I’m assuming—called him Bae. Neal, I believe, was his middle name, though no one called him by it when I knew him.”

            “Oh.” Henry bites down on the Jolly Rancher in his mouth. It crunches loudly and makes his teeth hurt, a bit. He doesn’t mind that so much, though. “Do you think Emma knows that? That his name was really Baelfire?”

            “I don’t know, lad.”

            Henry frowns, fiddles with the wrappers in his hands. She must’ve—

            Right?

            And it’s just—it figures he might not know, like, his favorite color—but not even knowing his real _name_? They put—

            He doesn’t even know what name’s on the gravestone. It wasn’t ready yet, at the funeral. The minister said Neal. He never went back to the cemetery.

            He needs to know, suddenly, he wants to—

            But.

            Wait.

            “What happened to his mom?” Henry asks. Because she’s his _grandma_ , technically, and even _Gold_ managed to turn up for the funeral, so why hadn’t—

            “She died.”

            “Oh.”

            “Not long ago, actually. Old age. Nothing terrible.”

            Henry thinks Mr. Jones means it like—like it should be comforting. But all Henry can think is, here’s someone else who died and he never got to know them. Not really. And, geez, at least he got to _meet_ Neal. But his—his grandma, technically—she died, and he didn’t even know.

            “Do you think Neal knew?”

            “No. He wasn’t at the funeral.”

            Henry’s head snaps up.

            “ _You_ were?”

            Mr. Jones nods.

            “She was—a friend of my father’s. He died some years ago, but,” and here Mr. Jones shrugs. Avoids Henry’s eyes. “I figured someone ought to turn up for her.”

            “Why wasn’t my dad there?” Henry asks, though he thinks he knows the answer.

            “He ran away when he was young. I don’t think he ever got back in touch with either of his parents.”

            _Before he died_.

            Mr. Jones doesn’t say it, but Henry hears it.

            It’s all he can hear.

            “Is that when you knew him? Before he ran away?”

            “Yes.”

            Mr. Jones pushes him the bag of candy once more before standing up. He collects his own wrappers and Henry’s, throwing them away in the bin by the door.

            His heads feels like it’s spinning, a little. His dad was _really_ named Baelfire, his grandma died a few years ago, his dad ran away—

            _Fuck_.

            He really never knew him at all, did he?

            He wants, suddenly, to hit something, or throw something, or shout—something, anything to make his head not feel so heavy, so—

            Mr. Jones is watching him, though, stupid concerned look on his face again. It’s _his_ fault he feels like this.

            (But—he did ask. So, maybe it’s not _completely_ Mr. Jones’ fault he feels so shitty.)

            “Thanks, Mr. Jones,” Henry says as he stands, putting the bag of candy back on his desk. Mr. Jones looks at him all serious for a minute. Henry tries not to squirm under his gaze. Then he nods, once.

            “Of course, lad.”

            “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Henry?”

            He turns just before heading out the door.

            “You should call your mother.”

            (He feels raw, and sad, and he hates it. Hates _him_ , he decides. For knowing Neal and letting him run away and not being at his funeral.)

            “Which one?”

            (So he decides to be a smart ass.)

            Mr. Jones isn’t deterred.

            “Both. Either. Though, I think Emma might be a good person to talk to just now.”

            “I can’t talk to her about Neal. I bet _she_ didn’t—”

            “I think, if you gave her—or Regina—a chance, they just might surprise you.”

            Henry rolls his eyes.

            “Whatever.”

            “Have a good evening, lad.”

            Henry doesn’t say anything in response. He knows he’s being rude, but, well.

            He’s got a lot to process.

\---

            (The shrink Regina took him to liked to tell him that just because he had a _right_ to be angry didn’t mean he had a _right_ to lash out. That being justified didn’t justify bad behavior, or something.)

            (Henry’s still learning that lesson, though.)

\---

            When he gets back to his room he calls Neal’s number. He used to—

            Sometimes he’d call it, to listen to the voicemail.

            When he calls this time, all he gets is a stupid voice telling him that _this number has been disconnected_. To _please try again._

            He knows better than to chuck his phone at the wall, so he throws a book instead.

            It makes a loud thud as it hits the wall, and then again as it hits the floor, and there’s a mark left where it hit, and he tries to wipe it off but it won’t, so he kicks his bed, but even with his shoes on it hurts.

            He skips dinner, and he stares at Emma’s name in his contacts, and there aren’t any pictures of him with Neal—Neal didn’t like pictures, said it made him nervous, and Regina said once it was ‘the felon in him’ that felt like that—

            And he decides that he’ll run away—try one more time.

            This time, he knows exactly where he’s going.


	4. Chapter 4

**chapter 3.**

           

**henry.**

 

            “I had a feeling I’d find you out here.”

            “Oh, fuck _off_.”

            When Henry turns around to greet Mr. Jones (and his fucking flashlight), he expects to see Mr. Jones smirking or amused or _something_. Instead he just looks sad.

            And he doesn’t even tell Henry off for saying fuck.

            “What? Don’t you have a lecture or something planned?”

            “You can’t keep doing this, Henry.”

            “Like hell I can’t,” Henry says stubbornly.

            “Henry—”

            Henry doesn’t stick around to listen, he just walks past him back toward the dorms, eyes stinging and _failure_ and—

            “Lad, wait.”

            “ _Why?_ ” Henry spins to face him, then, doesn’t bother trying to keep his voice down or anything. “Why do you keep stopping me, why do you act like you care, why—”

            “I _do_ care, Henry. I just want to help.”

            “Well you can’t!”

            The words hang in the air between them and Henry’s eyes are burning even more than before.

            “Just leave me alone,” he says finally. He wipes at his eyes and refuses to look at Mr. Jones, but he can feel his eyes on him anyway.

            “You can’t keep running away, Henry. It won’t do you any good.”

            “You don’t know that.”

            “I do, actually.”

            Henry rolls his eyes.

            “You have two mothers who love you and want what’s best for you, you have a grandfather who wants to see you do well, you have—”

            “You?”

            (He didn’t mean for it to sound so weak. He _meant_ it to come out like some smart ass comment, but he knows as soon as he said it that that’s not what it sounded like.)

            (And maybe that’s not really what he meant, either.)

            “Running away from the people who love you won’t make anything any better,” Jones says by way of response.

            “That’s what my dad did.”

            “Aye. He ran away from his father, his mother—and then he ran away from _your_ mother.”

            Henry snaps his head up to look at Mr. Jones, surprised at the hardness in his voice.

            “I cared about your father, Henry, but he is not someone you should look to as an example. You can love him, you can honor his memory, but you do not have to become him in order to do that.”

            Henry wants to lash out, even though he knows that Mr. Jones is at least sort of right.

            “Talk to your mothers, lad. I’m sure they miss you.”

            “They shipped me off!” he snaps, the words coming fast. “They don’t miss me—they barely even care about me! I’m just a—a—a mistake—a problem they need to fix—a _burden_.”

            (His eyes are still burning and his chest hurts and he’s _tired_ and—)

            “Henry.”

            “It’s true! You don’t—you don’t know them, and you don’t know me, either, so just leave me alone, okay! Just—just leave me alone.”

            He wipes at his eyes again, hating himself for crying and Mr. Jones for catching him and watching him and _not fucking leaving_ and then he’s clicking off the stupid flashlight.

            “You know where to find me, then, lad.”

            And then he’s fucking _walking away._

            Which might’ve been exactly what Henry wanted, but—

            Maybe he was wrong.

 

**killian.**

            There was an ice cream shop in the town where Killian grew up, called ‘Any Given Sundae.’ He and Liam used to frequent it as children, and then Liam got a job and so it was Killian who would make the trek to pick up their weekly pints (one for each of them, as Liam, Dad, and Killian all had different favorites).

            As their mother had passed before Killian could remember, Ingrid, the shop owner, took a sort of motherly role toward Liam and Killian, but especially Killian. She even offered him a job when he was in high school, but Dad wanted him working down by the docks with him and Liam—felt it better work, more acceptable for a boy Killian’s age than scooping ice cream in a shop. Still, Killian would help Ingrid whenever she needed it—spots that needed painting or shelves that needed fixing, whatever.

            She was unmarried, but fostered children, which might have been why she took such an interest in Liam and Killian. Aside from ice cream, her life’s work was to take children who had no homes and no love of a family and try to give them that. She never adopted, but many of the kids who stayed with her did end up being placed in loving homes, and Killian remembers once when she invited him and his brother over for dinner around Christmas, how she had a row of cards from her former foster kids on the mantle.

            But she told him once, she said that there were eleven tells she’d found, that a child was going to run away their first night. He’d asked her what those tells were. And after Bae ran off, he asked her again. That time she told him.

            Bae had displayed seven the days before he ran away.

            And while Killian knew it wasn’t his fault, that he likely wouldn’t have been able to stop him—

            He blames himself just the same.

\---

            Henry, ever his father’s son, displays a few of those tells, too.

\---

            So it’s not at all surprising, finding him trying to run away again.

            Nor is it surprising for him to lash out in anger.

            What _is_ surprising is how deeply Henry seems to believe the words he’s saying—how deeply he feels his mothers don’t want him. Killian may not have ever met either of the boy’s mothers, but he has a very strong feeling that they _do_ , in fact, love Henry very much. But he knows that telling Henry that won’t make him believe it. Words won’t change the boy’s mind. Only Henry can do that.

            And perhaps it’s the opposite of helpful to walk away when the boy tells him to go, but he feels that pushing Henry—as he’d once pushed Bae—would backfire.

            Ingrid, he knows, would have known what to do, but Killian—

            Well.

            Killian may have spent a lot of time around lost boys, but he’s no better at saving them now than he was when he first came to Neverland.

\---

            Perhaps it’s that you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

\---

            (Or maybe he’s just trying to make himself feel better.)

\---

            He doesn’t report Henry, but he does send a note to Gold anyway.

            _You should spend some time with your grandson. I’m sure he’d appreciate it._

            The email he gets back is short.

            _I’m busy. He knows he can come to me if he needs anything._

            Killian can’t help but wonder if that is what he was like with Bae, too, or if the workaholic in him came out only after he’d lost his wife and son.

            (Killian has a feeling it’s the former.)

\---

            “I called my mom.”

            Killian looks up from his desk. His students all left a few minutes ago; Henry he had in an earlier class. But here he stands, in his poorly knotted tie, bags under his eyes, defiance written all over his face.

            “Did you now?”

            Henry nods.

            “Regina. She didn’t answer so I left a message.”

            “Good. And Emma?”

            Henry looks down.

            “What is it, lad?”

            He shrugs.

            “I’m sure she’d be happy to hear from you, too.”

            “I didn’t say goodbye, though. What if she doesn’t—what if she’s mad?”

            “I think she’d just be glad to hear your voice.”

            Henry nods to himself.

            “What did you say to Regina?”

            Henry shrugs again.

            “Just, you know. School’s good and whatever.”

            “I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear it.”

            “Yeah.”

            Killian watches him for a moment. Henry refuses to meet his eye.

            “Would you like a piece of candy, lad?”

            Henry looks up, then.

            “Aren’t you—you know. Mad at me?”

            Killian pulls the bag out of his drawer and holds it out to Henry.

            “You were upset. And while that doesn’t excuse bad behavior, I don’t take it to heart.” He makes sure Henry’s looking at him when he speaks next. “People say things when they’re upset that they don’t always mean. That doesn’t make it okay. But that doesn’t make it true, either. My door is always open to you if you ever want to talk, but I won’t force you to do so, either. I _will_ , however, keep you from running away. And understand, Henry, that that isn’t me singling you out. That is me doing my job. My job is to keep the students at this school safe. To look after them. Leaving the grounds unattended, running away—I cannot turn a blind eye to such behavior. Whether the boy running away is you or anyone else, my reaction is the same.”

            Henry nods.

            Killian pushes the bag of candy closer to him.

            Henry looks down to pick a piece.

            “Has Regina called you back yet?”

            “No.” Henry peels the wrapper off the Jolly Rancher he’s selected. “She probably called Emma. They’re probably discussing how to respond or whatever. Which is another—even if I call Emma now, she’ll know I called Regina first. And what if—”

            “Look, your mothers may have led you to believe otherwise, but it isn’t a competition. If Emma gets offended that you called Regina first, or instead of her—that is her problem to deal with, not yours. You don’t have to speak to anyone you don’t want to. If you don’t want to talk to Emma, don’t. But if you don’t want to talk to Emma because you’re afraid she might be upset with you—don’t put that on her. She’s your mother, and she cares about you.”

            Henry nods again.

            “I think I might—uh. I think I might go call her. Maybe. I dunno. I have homework, too, and—”

            “Take your time. Your mothers will still be there.”

            “What if they’re not?” he asks, voice small.

            Killian debates whether or not he should say it.

            “Then they aren’t worth having in your life.”

            If Henry’s surprised, he doesn’t let on. He just nods again, slightly, and stuffs his wrapper into his pocket.

            “Thanks, Mr. Jones.”

            “Any time, lad.”

            And with that, Henry is gone.

\---

            That night Killian looks at Henry’s file again. Looks at the contact information for his mothers.

            To reach out to them would be an abuse of power, he’s certain. Favoritism—not to mention how much issue Gold might take with the action. No, it’s not his right to contact Emma Swan or Regina Locksley.

            He can only hope that Henry does, and that both women respond. _Well._

            He has a feeling he’ll hear about it, regardless.

 

**emma.**

 

            And it’s probably stupid, but she thinks putting Henry on that bus was harder than giving him up for adoption. At least then she thought she was sending him away for his own good—to a family who would be able to take care of him better than she could. With Barrie she wasn’t giving her kid his best chance; she was sending him away and _hoping_ it would help.

            Truthfully, she never wanted to send him, and she doesn’t think Regina did, either. But what else were they supposed to do? Skipping school and breaking into cars—joyrides? He was 14. She knew what that kind of path led to, and she wanted—

            God, wasn’t that the whole _point_ of giving him up? Trying to save him from that kind of life?

            He wouldn’t even speak to her—didn’t even say goodbye, which, she understood. He was angry. She used to be an angry kid, too.

            But _God_. She just wishes she could hold him and tell him it’s gonna be okay, wishes she could go back and never give him up in the first place, or—or maybe an open adoption, _something_. Anything that might’ve prevented this—having to send her son away for his own good.

            And at first, they both—Regina and her—they resist reaching out to him. Figure, maybe he needs time to cool down. They don’t want to overwhelm him, push him.

            But what if he thinks—

            So when Regina calls her—near tears—to tell her that he called—left a message—said he’s doing okay—

            Well. Maybe they didn’t completely fuck up, after all.

\---

            And she wonders if he’ll call her, too. She’s not upset he called Regina—she’s the one who raised him, after all, if he’d miss anyone it’d probably be her, Emma gets that—honestly, she’s just glad he wants to talk to one of them.

            She wonders and hopes and misses him, which seems so weird because for ten years he wasn’t part of her life at all, only in the past couple of years had he been, and yet it’s like this gaping hole, this noticeable absence. He didn’t live with her long, but it was long enough.

            She may not have raised him, but she never stopped loving him, and the worrying and wondering and hoping he’s okay—

            She supposes that may never go away.

\---

            She doesn’t cry, though.

\---

            _“Hey, Mom. Uh. It’s Henry. I just wanted to say hi, and, uh. School’s okay. Kind of boring. I don’t hate it, though. Except the uniform. We have to wear ties. But, uh. I joined the sailing club. Maybe—Anyway. I hope you didn’t let the plants die. Talk to you later, I guess. Bye.”_

\---

            (This time she does.)

**henry.**

“ _Henry! I’m so glad you called. I know Barrie wasn’t exactly your choice, but I’m glad you’re adjusting. So classes are going well? Do you have a favorite? Has Mr. Gold been kind? I just hope you’re okay, Henry. I miss you, and I love you very much. The apple trees are starting to bloom. Maybe when you come home we can make pie like we used to. Call me soon. I love you.”_

            He saves the message and clicks over to the next.

            “ _Hey, kid. I missed hearing your voice. The plants are still alive, though it was touch and go with Clive for a little bit. Sailing club—wow. I wanna hear more about that. And I know uniforms suck. Sorry about that. . . I hope you don’t hate it, though. I know you didn’t—but I hope it’s okay. It sounds like you’re doing okay. I miss having you around the house, kid. Call me back, if you want. I love you, Henry. Talk to you later.”_

            He saves that one, too.

            And even though he knows it’s probably a terrible idea, he clicks through his saved messages until—

            “ _Hey, bud. Listen, I know I said we’d hang out this weekend and I hate doing this but what if we hung out during the week sometime? Maybe I’ll pick you up from school. Just, something came up, which sucks, I know. I’d rather hang out with you anyway, but I can’t get out of it. So we’ll reschedule, okay? Talk to you later. Oh, and let your mom know for me, too, will you? Later, bud.”_

His finger hovers over the delete button but he just can’t quite bring himself to do it.


	5. Chapter 5

**chapter 4.**

 

**henry.**

            When Henry shows up for sailing club that week there’s no one in the foyer but Mr. Jones.

            “Where is everyone?”

            “Sick, detention, sick, visiting family, busy,” Mr. Jones lists off. “Did you still want to head out to the boathouse? We don’t have to.”

            “Sure. Nothing else to do, right?”

            Mr. Jones nods.

            “Well, let’s head out, then.”

            They walk mostly in silence, Henry pulling off his tie once they’re outside and shoving it in his pocket.

            “Don’t like the tie?”

            “No. I hate them.”

            “Did B—Neal teach you how to tie them?”

            “No. Emma. Sort of. Regina too, I guess. I dunno. They never really taught me, more like, the only times I had to wear a tie, they just did it for me, you know?” he kicks at a rock as they walk. “Neal had to wear ties to work, though.”

            “Did he?”

            Henry nods.

            And it’s funny, but it’s like, as soon as he starts talking about him, he can’t stop—like everything that has to do with Neal is like a leaky faucet or whatever, dripping and dripping always and when it gets turned even a little it’s this sudden burst he doesn’t know how to stop.

            “He was supposed to be with me when he died,” he says—fucking burst of—whatever, fucking leaking fucking faucet, like he can’t even control himself

            “We were gonna—he was gonna pick me up from Emma’s, and, I dunno. Pizza or a movie or something? But he’d called me that week, said something came up, and I thought it was a work thing, maybe, I dunno. Because he cancelled like, the day before or whatever. And it was fine, I was—I wasn’t too upset, you know? But when I told my mom she got kinda mad, and I heard her talking to him that night, telling him, like, ‘don’t make promises you can’t keep’ and whatever. But it was really fine, I wasn’t—he said he’d pick me up from school some other day, and we’d still hang out then. But then he died. Car accident.”

            (Regina and Emma wouldn’t let him see the report, wouldn’t let him see the police photos or the accident site—closed casket, too, so he never even _saw_ him, they told him—they said he’d died and there was a service and a casket that got buried, a funeral plot, but he never _saw_ —)

            “I’m sorry, lad.”

            (They _all_ said sorry, after. _Sorry for your loss—sorry this happened to you—sorry—sorry—sorry—_ )

            “He wasn’t at work,” he says suddenly, because it’s important, too, this is—this is important, it means something, it means something to him, so—

“Or, it wasn’t some work thing. Why he couldn’t hang out with me. It was—it was his girlfriend, or whatever. But she was cheating on him, did you know that? I’m not supposed to know that. I didn’t even know about her. But that’s—he was going to meet her, and her family, but he got hit by a car and he died and when my mom told her she said she’d been cheating, was gonna break it off, thought maybe she shouldn’t come to the funeral. I mean, what—how shitty is that?”

“Very shitty.”

“She didn’t even love him! Or, she was pretending to. And the last thing—that was the last—”

And it _hurts_. It hurts that hardly anyone came to the funeral, hurts that he lied, hurts that he cancelled their plans—hurts that the last person his father was supposed to spend time with didn’t even give a fuck.

(Scares him, because what if he—

What would happen, if something happened to _him_?)

“Henry.”

He realizes then that they’d stopped walking, and they’re by the boat house, and his face is warm and wet, and Mr. Jones has his hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles like Regina used to when he was little and he’d get so upset he couldn’t breathe for all the crying, only he’s _not_ crying but he feels like he’s choking? Like he can’t get air, and—

“Breathe, lad. Deep breath in.”

He tries, feels it shudder through him.

“And out. Once more, that’s it.”

And he’s not sure how long they stand there, him struggling to get his breathing under control and Mr. Jones trying to comfort him, but after a while he feels himself even out—feels exhausted, feels embarrassed, feels a little better just the same. Jones gives him a small smile.

“All right now?”

Henry shrugs, feeling his ears turn red.

“Come on, then. Sailing’s good for the soul.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

“No, I mean—we can still go?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

Henry shrugs again.

“We’ll go out for a bit and then head back for dinner. The sea’s always calmed me on rough days. Perhaps you’ll find it helps you, too. And if not, well, at least you’re not holed up in your room.”

Henry nods and follows him out onto the boat, going through the motions and following Mr. Jones’ instructions.

It’s only once they’re out on the water that either of them speak.

“You never spoke to anyone after he died, did you?”

“No. Regina wanted me to, but Emma thought it’d be better to give me time. And then I told them that if they did try to make me go see a shrink I wouldn’t say anything.”

Mr. Jones nods.

“It helps to talk, though, you know.”

“I know.” He plays with a spare bit of rope and looks out at the waves. “I just—I didn’t wanna talk to a stranger, you know? And I didn’t know what to say. Or—it’s like, it didn’t even feel real for a while? And then—why should I talk to someone who didn’t know me, or my moms, or him? And then, all they’d know about him, or me, or them—it’d just be that. And that felt unfair? Or something? Because he wasn’t—he wasn’t a bad dad, you know? He didn’t—he wasn’t great, but—

“And,” Henry continues after a pause. “I didn’t want them to tell me to get over it. Or just forget about him, or—”

Pause.

“It’s okay to miss him, Henry.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.” Mr. Jones sighs. “My father and I didn’t get on, really. He was a bit of a shit dad, honestly, but I still—I was sad when he died, and some days I still miss him.”

He nods.

 

**killian.**

            It’s not a lie, that he still misses his father from time to time, though his being a shit father is even less of a lie.

            Henry nods, more to himself than to Killian, and Killian pats him on the back.

            They don’t say anything else for the rest of the trip, but when Henry smiles at him and says thank you when they reach the school again, he thinks perhaps the salt and the sea _did_ help the boy after all.

\---

            Henry stays late after class the following week. Trudges cautiously up to Killian’s desk.

            “What is it, lad?”

            Henry avoids his eyes.

            “Henry—”

            “Parents weekend is coming up.”

            Ah.

            He’d almost forgotten about that.

            Parents’ weekend, when Headmaster Gold throws open the gates of the school and welcomes in all the parents and family members of his students, when the halls are draped with banners and pennants listing the school’s academic and athletic achievements, everyone in their Sunday best and school scarves—their school colors on display in case anyone might have forgotten from last year.

            It’s hardly Killian’s favorite weekend (most of the parents he meets have more _complaints_ about his teaching than anything else, as though it is somehow his fault their boy refuses to do his work or study for his exams), but he imagines Henry must be approaching it with even more dread.

            “Did you invite your mothers?”

            “No.”

            Killian pulls the candy from his desk and hands it to Henry. He takes a piece.

            “Have you spoken to either of them recently?”

            He shakes his head.

            “How come?”

            He shrugs.

            “Henry.”

            “I just—I dunno. I kept meaning to call her—both of them—back, but I—forgot. And then it got later, and more time passed, and, I dunno. I just didn’t. And I know I’ve been crappy to them, but.” He shrugs again. “I miss Emma. And Regina. Fuck, even Robin, a little.”

            “Robin?”

            “Regina’s new husband.” He takes another piece of candy, and Killian motions for him to pull up a chair, so he does. “He thinks I hate him.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “Because I told him so.” Henry sighs heavily. “He married Regina and was all, I know you haven’t had a father in your life, son, and I want you to know that I’ll treat you no different than Roland. He actually said he’d like to be my dad, if I’d let him. So I told him to fuck off.”

            “Henry,” Killian scolds softly.

            “I know, I know. But this was back when Regina and Emma were still all fighting over who got to have me—like my opinion meant nothing, and then here comes Robin, all ‘I’m your dad now’ and it was just—and then even after Neal he was all, like, calling me son and _trying_ and—”

            He trails off.

            “But he was kind to you?”

            Henry nods.

            “He wasn’t terrible. He’s just not my dad.”

            “Believe me, Henry, he knows that.”

            “The point is, I miss my Mom, and my other Mom, and I sorta even miss Robin, but I’ve been terrible to them and I didn’t tell them about Parents weekend and I think the whole thing sounds dumb but—”

            “But it’s going to be difficult, to be surrounded by parents and not see yours?”

            Henry nods.

            “It’s gonna suck a lot.”

            “So call them.”

            Henry looks up at him.

            “Call Emma. Call Regina. Tell them you want to see them.”

            “Yeah, but—”

            “It wouldn’t be unwelcome, Henry.”

            “But what if it is?”

            Killian sighs.

            “Well then, as I’ve said before, if that _is_ the case—and I doubt that it is—they don’t deserve you. Henry, teenagers tell their parents they hate them. They slam doors and throw tantrums and run away. Their parents still love them.”

            “Did you tell your parents you hated them?”

            “I told my father to go to hell. Those were the last words I ever said to him, actually. I left home when I turned 18. I told you was a shit father, didn’t I? I told him that, and then told him to go to hell, and slammed the door after me. He died seven years later, but that was the last time we spoke.”

            “Whoa.”

            “That is an extreme case, I’ll admit,” Killian says quickly—he hadn’t quite meant to share so much with the boy. “The point is, your mothers would be happy to hear from you. Especially if it was to hear that you want to see them this weekend.”

            Henry nods to himself.

            “At least consider it?”

            Henry nods again.

            “And, I’ll tell you what. If neither of them come, you and I can go out on the boat.”

            “Really?”

            Killian nods.

            Henry smiles, then stands.

            “Thanks, Mr. Jones.”

            “Of course.”

            Henry looks as though he wants to say more, but he doesn’t, just smiles again and waves as he makes his way out of the classroom.

            Killian sighs heavily.

            He _really_ hopes one of Henry’s mothers shows up for family weekend.

            (Not for the first time, he itches to use the phone numbers in the file in his desk. Professionalism be damned.)

 

**henry.**

            He doesn’t call Emma. Or Regina.

            (He considers texting Robin—olive branch, or whatever—but he doesn’t do that, either.)

\---

            He wonders if Neal would’ve gone to something like Parents Weekend. Decides right away that he wouldn’t’ve. Neal was more the type to roll his eyes and say how lame it sounded. He would’ve promised Henry that he’d come visit some other weekend.

            (He can’t tell if thinking about Neal makes him feel better or worse.)

\---

            Saturday arrives too fucking fast, honestly, and Henry drags himself out of bed even though he feels like sleeping for five days.

            He puts on his best jeans, and his favorite shirt that Emma got him, and the scarf Regina gave him that’s soft, and his coat. He almost doesn’t even _want_ to go wait down in the Great Hall or whatever the fuck they’re supposed to call it this weekend to greet all the parents, because he really doesn’t think anyone’s gonna show up for him, but he trudges down anyway.

            At the very least, he’ll get to go sailing with Mr. Jones. It could be worse.

            (It could be better, too, but it’s his own fault it’s not.)

 

**killian.**

            The hall is awash in green and white, crammed full of students, a wall of sound. He spots a few of his fellow teachers amongst the crowd; like him, they’re in their nicest suits or dresses. He neglected to put on his official Barrie tie, and also failed to put on his official blazer, because he finds it makes him feel like an overgrown schoolboy. (Why should the teachers match the students anyway?)

            He finds himself nervous, though, as he scans the crowd for Henry. It would probably be frowned upon, his attachment to the boy, but he thinks he’d be more concerned about it if any of the other teachers even seemed to _notice_ Henry. Headmaster Gold had certainly set a terrible example. The boy’s own grandfather, and he probably hadn’t said more than ‘hello’ to him since he walked through the gates. And he certainly isn’t standing beside him on this day—this weekend supposedly devoted to _family_.

            (Killian had known before taking this post that Gold was hardly the family man he claimed to be, but it stills hits him, at times, the hypocrisy. He disliked Gold long before he met him, but meeting him and working for him had done nothing to alter the perception that Killian had had of him since the age of 16.)

            But Gold isn’t the issue here. Henry is. Or, more to the point, Henry’s mothers.

            Henry smiles tightly when he sees Killian but does nothing else. Killian smiles back (in what he hopes is a reassuring manner) as he comes to stand next to him.

            “Morning, lad.”

            “Hi.”

            He starts to say something when a group of parents start trickling in, the hall descending even further into chaos as the volume similarly increases. He sees Henry try to subtly crane his neck in search, and he just resists the urge to rest a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder.

            Slowly the crowd thins as boys are united with their parents, until only a few stragglers are left—families still catching up or speaking with teachers, boys still waiting for their families.

            And Henry and Killian.

            As the hall nearly empties out, he can sense the lad deflating.

            “I probably should’ve called, huh?”

            Killian doesn’t respond.

            Henry sighs.

            “Do you still want to go sailing?” Killian asks.

            “Maybe some other time,” he starts. “I’m—”

            Out of the corner of his eye Killian sees a blonde woman walk in, looking a bit harried as her eyes scan the room.

            She lights up when her gaze falls on them.

            “Henry!”

            Henry turns away from Killian and though he can’t see his face, he’s sure the boy’s face lights up, too.

            “Mom!”

            Henry all but jumps into his mother’s arms and she wraps him up, hand going to cradle the back of his head.

            (Is this Emma or Regina?)

            (Does it matter?)

            “Sorry I’m late, kid. Got a little lost trying to find this place.”

            “That’s okay,” Henry says quickly. “Is—is Regina—”

            “No, not—not this time,” she says. By this point they’ve pulled out of the hug but she—Emma, Killian has realized—is still holding on to Henry. “We weren’t sure you’d want either of us to come visit.”

            “Oh. Right.”

            “But I’ll tell her you said hi, okay?”

            Henry nods. Then he hugs her again.

            “I’m glad you came,” Killian hears him mutter.

            “Me, too. Miss you, kid.”

            “Miss you, too, Mom.”

            Killian’s trying to figure out how to disappear when Henry seems to remember he’s still there.

            “Mom, this is Mr. Jones, my teacher. Mr. Jones, this is my mom, Emma.”

            “Killian Jones, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, slipping into Educator mode and extending his hand. Emma smiles.

            “Emma Swan. Which subject do you teach?”

            “He teaches history. And sailing club. I told you about sailing club, didn’t I? Mr. Jones, can we show Mom the boat house? Can we still go sailing? Can—”

            “Whoa, slow down, kid,” Emma says, smiling fondly down at Henry. “He’s probably got other parents to meet with.”

            “Why don’t you show your mother around. I’ll likely head down to the boathouse later. If you were to stop by, I could be persuaded to give a tour,” Killian tells him. As much as he’d like to spend time with Henry (and his mother), he has a feeling that Henry and Emma could use the time together, too.

            This could be good for Henry, and whatever fears he may have had about Henry’s mothers are at least somewhat put to rest, given the way Emma smiles down at her son and the fact that she came to see him, despite not knowing how he might react.

            “Okay,” Henry agrees. “Thanks, Mr. Jones.”

            “Any time, lad. It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Swan.”

            “You, too.”

            He nods to them before turning away.

            (He supposes it’s only his imagination, that he feels like she watches him go.)

 


End file.
